


lament

by S_Strilonde



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, F/M, Humanstuck, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:47:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2253057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Strilonde/pseuds/S_Strilonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Sollux Captor, and instead of being haunted by a person, you're being haunted by the memory of someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lament

It's been six months.

  
You should be over it by now. You should have moved on a while ago. It's not healthy to keep dwelling on the past, Karkat says. But what does he know? He's never been in a situation remotely similar to this. Maybe nobody has. It's not like you're some sort of special snowflake, but you wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy.

 

She was always smiling. The polar opposite of you, with your constant grumpy expression, although she managed to break your little moody exterior more often than you would like to admit. She just had this genuine love of life that you could only dream of having, and smiled simply because she was alive. She loved the earth, with fingernails constantly caked with dirt from digging in it. But you didn't care too much about it, and neither did she. Her rock collection sat on your shelves, along with the slightly morbid bone collection. You always thought that was weird but she loved it, so you kept your mouth shut. They're still on your shelves now. You would wipe the dust off of them as they're rapidly accumulating it, but it doesn't seem right to touch them. You can't help but wonder if she would care if you touched them. When she was there, she would slap your hand away with a smile if you tried to lay a finger on one of her beloved bones or rocks. "They're fragile. And you have Dorito dust on your fingers." She would say with a giggle as you wiped your fingers on your jeans, leaving orange streaks behind.

 

The newspaper clipping is still laying on your desk. You're not really sure why you kept it in the first place. It only hurts to look at. Maybe it's because of the picture on it. Printed in black and white is a picture of her with a large grin, and her arm around you. Except they cropped most of you out, and she just has her arm around a random guy with a black tee shirt. It's the article the newspaper posted about her death. You just remember numbly reading it that day, and it didn't seem right to just toss it in the garbage. So you cut it out and kept it. It hasn't been moved in a while, cause you haven't read it in a while. Maybe that's good. It could be a sign that you're moving on.

  
But would she want you to move on so quickly? Six months might be too early. Or maybe you're just obsessing over it. It's not as if you could help it though. It was your fault. You keep reminding yourself that. You can never stop reminding yourself of that. There was a party, and that Serket girl gave you something in your drink and everything was fuzzy after that. She kept asking if you were alright to drive, and you insisted you were. She was sitting in the passenger's seat, and you were in the front. You had made it halfway there before you ran a red light head on into an intersection. That was the last thing you remember before waking up in a hospital.  


She didn't make it.  
  
  
You used to send her messages over Pesterchum. It was stupid, you knew there would be no response. But it was almost therapeutic, so you kept doing it. That is, until her handle was gone from your chumroll one day. In a panic, you searched it again and added it before sending another message.

  
TA: aa?  
  
You tapped your fingers on the keyboard in anticipation before you hear a ding and your heart stops, and then sinks when you see the screen.

  
SYSTEM: This chumhandle is no longer in use.

  
  
You turned off your computer and went to bed.

 


End file.
